I Hit It With My Axe - Part II - How Exactly DO I Hit It? With My Axe, I Mean?

Hail, Spell Slingers! 

Well, after learning about this mysterious game Dungeons & Dragons in an article in Starlog magazine, I knew I had to investigate further.  Unfortunately no store in my small hometown of Stephenville, Newfoundland sold the game.  I had to wait several weeks for my parents to take a drive into Corner Brook, where I knew that the Coles Bookstore in the Valley Mall had D&D box sets on display right up front.

Thinking about this amuses the hell out of me.  To consider that Dungeons & Dragons was such a huge cultural phenomenon that it was once prominently displayed in the same place now reserved for the latest Dan Brown, James Patterson or J.K. Rowling book is pretty high testimony.

Unfortunately that self-same article in Starlog inadvertently resulted in some "point of sale" confusion and subsequently caused me to buy the wrong thing.  I'd completely misinterpreted the following part of Lenny Kaye's article:

"Those with more serious bent, or who know they want to make a full hobby of these games...would do better to begin with the 'Advanced Dungeons & Dragons' set.  Along with the expected enlargement, it also relies on a different combat system, though the possible rewards awaiting your character are much greater.  The basic set only takes your character up three skill levels (a continuum which makes the game more of a serial then a one-shot); in 'Advanced D&D', you not only progress further in riches and power, but the number of possibilities open to you at any one level of skill are more varied"
   
Hmmmmm..."Greater Possibilities"?  "Further Riches and Power?"  Hells, sounds good to me!

Given what you've just read, you'd be forgiven for thinking that I'd purchased one of the more complex hardbound  Advanced D&D books by mistake.  Nooooo, that oversight would have been somewhat forgivable.

Standing by that sidewalk display in front of Coles Bookstore I was confronted with the following two colorful box covers:

I guess my undercooked brain must have interpreted "Expert Set" to mean Advanced Dungeons & Dragons.  I went to the cashier with the "Set 2: Expert Rules" box in my fevered little mitts and just as soon as I was strapped into the backseat of my parent's car, I had the cellophane ripped off that sucker quicker then you can say "Leomund's Tiny Hut".

Half way home a sinking feeling came over me.  As I flipped through the already-daunting 64-page rulebook, I finally noticed a chilling disclaimer on the back of the box: "THIS IS SET #2.  DO NOT BUY THIS SET UNTIL YOU HAVE SET #1".

In the intervening week I began a merciless campaign to pester my parents into taking me back to Corner Brook as soon as possible.  In the meantime, I studied the Expert Rules as best I could.  From what I could glean, the preliminary findings were tremendously exciting.  If the game delivered as promised, I'd soon be able to create a fantasy alter ego of sorts: either a brave fighter, a wise and holy cleric, a spell-weaving magic-user, a wily thief, stout dwarf, a nimble elf or a diminutive and sneaky halfling.  Once "birthed" in the game world, my plucky little avatar would then be able to explore a world rife with travel, adventure, battle, traps, riddles, exploration and tremendous in-game wealth.

Sorry, but for a socially awkward 13 year old kid weaned on Star Wars and The Hobbit, this held a lot of promise.

Equally evocative was the incredibly convincing art contained inside these rulebooks.  I mean, c'mon, just looking at this map, who wouldn't want to create a heroic fantasy avatar, hire a ship and sail across the sea to the ominous-sounding Isle of Dread?

As if the last two weeks weren't torturous enough, the following six days were chronological agony.  My dad made up some half-assed excuse to take me out of school Friday afternoon and we were soon en route to the Promised Land.  When we arrived in the parking lot of the Valley Mall I jumped out of the car while it was still moving, rushed to Coles Bookstore and snatched up a copy of that precious red box.  


"Okay, we can go now," I said when I'd reunited with my ever-patient parents.  They just shook their heads and promptly ignored my persistent requests to set course for home post haste.  

On the drive back I greedily studied the contents of the box.  It included a set of weird-looking, barely legible dice.  In addition to the standard-issue six sider, it also had a pyramidal four-sided die, an eight-sided die (which looked like two four-siders stuck together), a ten-faced pentagonal trapezohedron (try saying that five times real fast), a 12-sided dodecahedron and...the mother of all die, the exotic-looking twenty-sider.  This alone was intriguing enough.

What didn't make sense was why a simple white crayon was included in the box.  I studied it quizzically for a moment and then moved on to the books contained therein.  Now that I was actively looking for such things, I heeded the screaming instructions on the cover to "READ THIS BOOK FIRST"  and set aside the "Dungeon Master's Rulebook" in lieu of poring over the "Player's Manual". 

The Preface on the inside front cover contained the very first Dungeons & Dragons related words I would ever read:    


"This is a game that is fun.  It helps you imagine.


'As you whirl around, your sword ready, the huge, red, fire-breathing dragon swoops towards you with a ROAR!'


See?  You imagination woke up already.  Now imagine: this game may be more fun then any game you have ever played!"


This infantile but arresting little hook instantly cast a spell on me.  Just as soon as I got home I began to delve deeper into the precious tome.  First off, the mystery of the crayon was finally revealed:

"During your first adventure you will only need one of the dice in the box.  The others will be used later, for now all you need is the roundish one with the numbers 1 to 20 on it.  Use the crayon to fill in the numbers and rub off extra wax with a tissue so only the numbers are colored in."

After I'd made my enigmatic dice imminently more readable I continued to dive into the section entitled "What is role playing?":

"This is a role-playing game.  That means that you will be like an actor, imagining that you are someone else, and pretending to be that character.  You won't need a stage, though, and you won't need costumes or scripts.  You only need to imagine." 
 

Intrigued, I plowed onwards to discover what my debut role would be:


"Imagine: it is another place, another time.  The world is much like ours was, long ago, with knights and castles and no science or technology - no electricity, no modern comforts of any kind.  


Imagine: dragons are real.  Werewolves are real.  Monsters of all kinds live in caves and ancient ruins.  And magic really works!  


Imagine: you are a strong hero, a famous but poor fighter.  Day by day you explore the unknown, looking for monsters and treasure.  The more you find the more powerful and famous you become."

As if that wasn't enough, the section earmarked as "Your first adventure" really stirred up my yen for the noble quest:

"Your home town is just a small place with dirt roads.  You set off one morning and hike to the nearby hills.  There are several caves in the hills, caves where treasures can be found, guarded by monsters.  You have heard that a man named Bargle may also be found in these caves.  Bargle is a sort of bandit, who has been stealing money, killing people and terrorizing your town.  If you can catch him, you can become a hero!"  

Let me assure you, Kind Reader, in the simple days before Blu-Rays and Streaming Video, this was pretty heady stuff.  As an already imaginative kid, I could picture my fighter character striding confidently away from the relative safety of his small town, hoofing uphill with an equipment-laden backpack slung over one shoulder and a long sword's scabbard clattering against his armored leg with every stride.

The brief quest that followed saw my hero venture into a dimly lit cavern.  Inside the cave I had a brief dust-up with an evil goblin and then a deadly rattlesnake.  As I ventured deeper into the labyrinth, the simple yet brilliant mechanics of this completely original game began to reveal itself.

If I intend to accomplish anything at all with this blog series, at the very least I want to debunk the stigma and mystery around how this game works.  Let's face facts: to the casual onlooker an average game of  D&D can easily inspire some serious head-sctatchery.  With it's odd cardboard screens, out-of-context ad-libbing, seemingly complex record keeping and hopeful throws of gemstone-shaped dice,  it's no wonder people just glance at it and conclude that its just something weird, cultish, ritualistic or exclusionary.  Nothing can be further from the truth.  

When Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson invented D&D their goal was to was to give players the ability to exist within a realm that was considerably more romantic, daring, adventurous and scarier then our own.  They did this entirely within the frame work of a game.  And if I can communicate anything at all, it's that.  D&D is just a game.  

And as such it has rules.  Although there's plenty of over-the-top drama, danger, escapes, heroics, battles and close calls it's still kept fairly "realistic" by the framework of it's rules.  Like real people, each D&D character is born with it's own unique strengths and weaknesses.  Before they play, prospective adventurers roll dice to generate their characters ability scores in six key areas.  They are:

Strength: Which determines how easily you can smite someone, how much damage you cause and how successful you are at performing feats of strength like lifting a beam off a fallen team-mate or opening a particularly stubborn jar of mayonnaise. 
Intelligence: Which represents how much your character knows, how well they learn and how many languages they can speak.  It's also a clutch ability if your character uses magic; since it often giving you bonus spells.
Wisdom:  Whereas Intelligence is a measure of booksmarts, Wisdom is your character's common sense and willpower.  This one's critically important if you're trying to avoid being bespelled, for example.
Dexterity:  This illustrates how nimble your alter ego is and how proficient they might be with a missile weapon like crossbows and such.  
Constitution:  This one determines how hearty your l'il avatar is.  It influences how much damage they can soak up before they croak and how resistant they are to disease or trauma.  
Charisma:  Will your character be a Poindexter or Suave Motherf#@$%^?  High Charisma gives your characters a chance to talk your way out of sticky situations as well as easily gain friends and influence people.

Just like real life, we don't get to choose our high and low points and the same goes in the world of D&D.  To generate random ability scores, players roll three 6-sided die for each characteristic and add 'em up, creating a nice bell-curve result from 3-18 (with most scores falling into the 9-12 or "average" range).  The higher the number, the better the ability.  

Needless to say, just by rolling these die you already get a built-in hook on how your character might behave.  For example, a fighter with a Strength of 17 and a Intelligence of 4 might habitually get through locked doors by headbutting them open.  In the same breath, they're also probably not smart enough to figure out why they're having periodic dizzy spells and persistent ringing in their ears.

So, in that first introductory adventure my pre-made warrior character had the following stats:

Strength           17        Constitution    16      
Dexterity          11        Wisdom           8
Intelligence         9        Charisma        14

So, with these numbers in mind, it isn't difficult for me to describe this dude.  He's likely got little to no discernible neck, isn't likely to slip on a patch of ice when running for the outhouse, reads nothing beyond the odd issue of How To Hit Stuff With Your Axe digest, doesn't usually get the flu, does alright downtown with the ladies and might one day be voted "most likely to have all of his gold grifted by a fake Jamaican with fast hands and a card table."

Also, unless your Peter Griffin, most people can only take a certain amount of abuse before they konk out.  In D&D terms, this is referred to as Hit Points (an affectation that's already been stolen by countless video games).  Often times your character's Hit Points are determined by your class (rough and tumble fighters can take more abuse than, say, your average pencil-necked, pasty wizard) and it's augmented by how good or bad your Constitution is.  


But the whole idea is not to get hit in the first place, right?  In the wacky world of D&D this is simulated by a simple little stat called Armor Class.  Armor Class (or A.C. for those with a fetish for abbreviations) is determined by what kind of cool, medieval-style armor your character is wearing and how good their Dexterity is.  For example an agile knight wearing a suit of chain mail armor is gonna be a helluva lot harder to hit and damage in battle then say, Steve Urkel.

Man, I just wanna smash that little...*Ahem*...sorry 'bout that. 


Ergo, whenever you get in a scrap, your chances to successfully concuss your opponent before they brain you is determined by how armored your opponent is and how strong your l'il paper champion is.  When you want to try and hit something, your success also isn't a foregone conclusion.  You have to roll the big 20-sided die, add any bonuses or penalties based on your Strength and then check the results against your target's armor.  Generally, the higher the roll the better.  

In addition to all of his of her physical properties, you can laden your character down with more equipment  then a Manhattanite going on their first camping trip.  You can buy backpacks to carry all the phat lootz you find, lanterns to light your way in the darkness, holy water to splash on nasty undead things, mirrors to see around dungeon corridors, wooden poles to safely poke around in scary piles of refuse, rations for your character to nosh on, rope for climbing and/or assorted kinky stuff, spikes to keep dungeon doors propped open, tinder boxes to light fires ("Heh, heh, heh.  FIRE!!!  FIRE!!!"), waterskins to keep your whistle wet and wolvesbane to keep the Lon Chaney Jr. types away.

Also in a painful simulation of real life, when your intrepid character starts his or her career, they're often poorer then church mice.  In fact, one of the main motivators for your character to venture out into a monster-filled world is to rake in a few Benjamin and, as such, make enough coin to buy the medieval adventurers equivalent of a 50" plasma T.V.  

1080p LCD Progressive Scan Crystal Ball, mayhaps?      
 
All of this stuff (character name, gender, profession, Hit Points, Armor Class, Ability Scores, equipment, money, sexual orientation, political affiliation, blood type, favorite color) can all be summarized on a handy-dandy Character Sheet which you'll be asked to refer to periodically during the adventure.  Taken as a whole, that Character Sheet is kinda like your Permanent File, but in this case, it's a good thing since it encapsulates your character at a glance and makes him or her a breeze to play.    

Back in Adventureland, my fighter managed to slay the giant snake and claim it's modest treasure of scattered coin.  Marginally wounded he staggered further into the darkness and stumbled across a figure in the dark who appeared to be meditating or praying:

Her name was Aleena, a cleric and member of the local clergy who, through her faith in a higher power, receives spells of healing and protection in addition to her martial combat prowess.  After she healed me by laying on hands ("Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, knowwhatImean,knowwhatImean?") we formed a temporary alliance and forged ahead together in the darkness.

After Aleena used her holy influence to turn back a horde of slavering undead monsters we both finally managed to reach Bargle the evil magic user and his goblin henchman.  In the ensuing melee I managed to slay the goblin piss-boy but sadly, Bargle used his dark arts to kill my new found friend.

  

In the end, Bargle managed to escape.  As the undead ghouls closed in again I decided on an expeditious retreat and fled from the dungeon carrying Aleena's body with me...

Although Aleena had been laid low, I'd had some pretty hairy adventures and lived to fight another day.  Still using that magical "Players Manual", I soon continued on an even more elaborate quest.  After purchasing some new platemail armor from Armorer Baldwick, I soon ventured back to the same caves via another entrance.  In my subsequent delve the following adventury things happened:

• A statue revealed a secret note giving clues to the dungeon's other denizens.
• I managed to scare away one giant rat but was forced to tangle with two more of it's nasty brethren.
• "O-T-T-F-F-S-S!"  A giant disembodied mouth suckers me into a twisted game of "riddle me this".
• Goblins!  Goblins!  Goblins!
• I face a diabolical creature that I wished threatened my own hide instead of my shiny new expensive armor!
• I ask myself if finding a treasure chest is worth losing my head over.
• I recreate my own version of the Sinbad vs. Skeleton fight:

After this harrowing delve, I soon created my own fighter character and ran him through a series of randomly generated adventures.  Eventually I grew tired of this and decided that the time was right to come out of my imaginative closet and let a couple of my friends in on my little gaming secret.

Ultimately it was the following tempting words that swayed me to get others involved:

"Most of the fun of a Dungeons & Dragons game comes from playing in a group.  To play in a group, one person must be the Dungeon Master (or DM).  The DM is the person who plays the parts of the monsters and runs the game."

I let this sink in for a bit.  Playing these heroic, swashbuckling characters was undeniably rewarding, but for aspiring Dungeon Masters, who's role it is to craft the stories, design it's evil traps, act as the realm's denizens and be final arbiter of everything that happens in the game the lure was even stronger:

It was the chance to play god.

EPIC  If Tarantino directed my D&D adventure, this would be the poster.  There's a whole generation of geeks out there that have spent the past 28 years wishing that there was some way to save poor, hot, fictional Aleena and kill that f#@% Bargle.

EPIC QUEST  This is, without a doubt one, of the best books you can read to learn how to play Dungeons & Dragons.  It's written from the perspective of a real "girly-girl" named Shelly Mazzanoble who began working for the company that currently produces D&D.  Eventually she got suckered into playing the game and, to her suprise, managed to look past all the societal stigma to discover one of most consistently enjoyable and rewarding pastimes.  A hilariously funny and very candid read.

 

EPIC DOC  A decent little doc about the game although the lines between fantasy and reality seem to be bleeding together for the guy with the giant beer mug...

ARTISTICALLY EPIC  The beautiful sketches that culled from my old D&D Basic Set to use in this blog were drawn by the truly magical Larry Elmore.  Do yourself a favor: check out his site and prepare to be amazed!
http://larryelmore.com/ 
 
FAIL  It's because of freaks like this that D&D will always be somewhat "stigmatic":

April is National Poetry Month. Here, I got you a Haiku...

Greetings, Persistent Purveyors of Poesy!

Wait, I didn't catch that...did you just say that you don't like poetry?  Why the hell not!?  What's wrong with you?  Were you dropped on your head as a kid or something?  Sheesh.

You like music, dontcha?  Music has lyrics, right?  You like lyrics, capish?    

I've always personally defined poetry as "an economic concentration of meaning in as succinct and artistic a manner as possible".  Ever send a text message to someone?  What can be more succinct and meaningful then a text?

Okay, maybe "can i use ur washroooom i realy hav 2 pee" isn't the best example of art, but in this age of insta-communication, I really wouldn't be surprised is poetry doesn't have a major resurgence soon.
 
When you're an English Major, like it or not, there's just no way you can avoid poetry.  Through a mix of dedicated study, personal predilection or even osmosis, you eventually become intimately familiar with Shakespeare's sonnets, Blake's head-trips, Wordsworth's daffodil fetish, Dickinson's vigorous verses, Coleridge's epics, T.S. Elliot's dirges and Shelly's romantic surrealism.  Eventually it begins to bleed into you.  You become obsessed with seeking out works of renown, analyzing everything for deeper meaning and reading it aloud to people in the hopes of possibly having sex with them.

One of the coolest things that a bunch of us did while we lived in residence was compose poetry during some of our more pedestrian classes.  At the end of the day, we'd gather in someone's room and read what we'd composed.  Mercifully this never resulted in us having sex with one other.   *Shudder*  

So why did we do it?  Beat's me.  It might be because that, at the time, some of us considered folks like Leonard Cohen and Jim Morrison to be kinda "pimp".  Maybe it's because we had no creative outlet otherwise.  Maybe it's because we were just stone-cold bored in class.  Or perhaps we wanted to write something good enough to impress the ladies.  

Whatever the reason, we were pretty prolific there for awhile.  Our efforts certainly weren't limited to weirdo English Majors, either.  There were International Studies and Commerce students in the mix as well.  Generally what we wrote was pretty crappy.  I know my first few efforts were alternately waaaaaaay too heavy handed and/or pretentious to see the light of day.

Periodic boredom in the classroom eventually gave way to chronic boredom in the workplace.  Call centers, with their regimented protocols and lack of innovation, are a veritable breeding ground for composing verse.  I wrote a fair bit during this time and some of my cubically contained inmates followed suit.  Occasionally my pathetic plea for a creative outlet would raise it's head when trying to cope with the sometimes surreal office environment  or worm its way into supervisory emails sent to staff members prone to fleeing the work place:

Revealing A Mystery...

"Reading fleetly 'tween the calls
Phone and clock upon the walls
Scream in your ear 'You must take flight!'
Alight in carriage, bold and bright.

Epiphany strike, a thought declare:
'I left my book and notes back there!'
Dawn a class comes, naught to show.
'I'll skip the damn'd thing, I WILL NOT GO!

So knowledge gain'd and lesson learn'd
Accoutrement all I must confirm
Before the mad dash to the brink
FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, JUST ONCE, PLEASE THINK!

Sorry, I couldn't resist.   You'll find your Edgar Allan Poe book and binder at the Coaches desk.

P.S. Make sure you read The Tell-Tale Heart.  Good stuff."

When finishing my book became priority one, poor, neglected verse fell by the wayside.  That is, until this time last year.  I had the good fortune of reading the following article in Halifax's Weekly Dose of Realistic Optimism, The Coast:

http://www.thecoast.ca/ArtAttack/archives/2010/04/21/open-heart-forgery-poetry-journal-debuts

For those of you too lazy to click on ye olde link (I'm lookin' at you, bub!) it tell the story of one Donal Power, a former journalist turned editor who's been passionate about poetry since High School.  In this wacky modern world he just can't wrap his head around why an art form which was once so pervasive and easy to practice has fallen into cultural oblivion.  He can't conceive as to why reading, sharing and publishing poetry has become so academic and insular.  He struggles with how local institutions seem more concerned with creating a cottage industry for people already published versus fostering talented but yet-unheard voices.

His solution to this deficit was so simple it was brilliant.  He created Open Heart Forgery, a self-described "grass roots, guerrilla journal of poems and lyrics that seeks to energize the writing community in Halifax and the HRM".  Every month Donal asks creative folks (just like you, Gentle Reader) to email their lyrics and poems to him.  He then turns his aesthetic, analytic and editorial eye on each submission, separates the wheat from the chaff and publishes the ten-point font, 28 line max results on a tri-fold sheet of colorful legal paper. 

In addition to his own distribution efforts, he invites readers to literally "forge" every issue by going to the OHF homepage, printing it, copying it and then scattering it all around the Halifax Regional Municipality.  If you live in the area, keep an eye out for it the next time you're out and about: it could turn up on a bus, in a coffee shop, at the library, in a pub, in a bookstore, at the laundromat or in the waiting room of the place where you routinely get a high colonic ("Hey, waitaminit, this isn't a Doctor's office!").

And I'll tell ya right now, folks, OHF certainly makes for more soul-nourishing, karmically fulfilling lunchtime reading then say, that crappy Flying Cow ad rag.   

Since I've been chasing the dream of official publication for years like Jeremy Wade after a River Monster, I decided to throw caution to the wind, nut up and send in one of my poems.  For the record, here is the very pram in question:

Anticipation

An obligatory glimmer of promise provided.

The unconscious optimist now resurrected.

His sermons of hope are ever-alluring.

The masses will follow, never returning.

Empowered, he usurps the throne of despair.

Just as the bullet will dagger the air.

The flock and the spirit will perish within him.

But that's the way it is without him.

The martyr must fall from the golden barony.

All for the sake

     of a little something

                   called "tragic irony".

To my amazement, here was Donal's reply a few days later:

"Hello David,

Thank you very much for your submission 'Anticipation' to Open Heart
Forgery (I particularly enjoyed the deft line  'the bullet will dagger
the air' - very deft and evocative). We've got it queued up for the
upcoming June issue.

Thanks again David and happy writing!"

This led me to my first public poetry reading at Local Jo's cafe at the end of May.  Being forced to do presentations in university as well as training and presentations at work really served me well.  It was a major ego boost to realize that I'd completely conquered my crippling fear of speaking in front of crowds.  It was also inspiring and enriching for me to witness other shy people screw up their courage, march up to the podium and pour their creative little hearts out in front of total strangers.  Bless 'em...often they'd be up there with their voices cracking, bodies trembling, clutching sweat-soaked sheets of parchment in their white-knuckled mitts.

But in the end, they conquered their fears and survived the process intact.  I watched with growing pride as they became increasingly confident and bold.  I soon found myself falling in severe like with this crowd of supportive, interesting, quirky and sometimes wiltingly sensitive misfits.  

I was also amazed by the ever-increasing turnout.  Partnered with the already well-established Left Bank Poetry Reading group (featuring such local literary luminaries as David Rimmington, Meg Baird, Heddy Johannesen, Anna Quon, Steve Vernon and David Williams) we eventually outgrew our available space and moved into the tres popular Just Us! coffee shop on Spring Garden Road in downtown Halifax.

During this time I was fortunate enough to be published in Open Heart Forgery three more times.  I was so taken by Donal's contagious enthusiasm and his noble struggle to foster creative awareness that I pledged my ongoing support to help distribute new issues every month.  A few months later, I became OHF's official Distribution Manager.

April 2'nd saw us hit yet another milestone.  On the occasion of OHF's first birthday (and in honor of National Poetry Month)  Donal managed to bring the whole concept to its logical extension by publishing the periodical's first Anthology.  Readers and listeners alike gathered to celebrate it's launch at Halifax's venerable Seaport Farmers Market.   

I was blown away.  For the first time ever, I could open up a book and point to something I'd written and say: "Hey!  Check this shiznit out!  I wrote this!"

So where will Open Heart Forgery go from here?  Frankly, the sky's the limit.  We're starting to take our new issue launches on the road to libraries all over the HRM.  Our last gathering at the North Branch of the Halifax Public Library was a resounding success.  Frankly I'm not surprised that, despite a change of venue and a two-month hiatus, it's still growing.  In an age of people communicating vicariously though social networking and smart phones, there's something primal and visceral about gathering together in a common space to share stories, songs and poems with real people face-to-face.

If this blog has inspired you at all, then get choppin'!  Compose some verse!  Come to one of our readings!  If you're reading this in some far-flung corner of the earth and you feel compelled to act, then email Donal @ editor@ohForgery.com and see if you can start up your own regional version of Open Heart Forgery! 

Above all, stay creative!  The world really does belong to people that bring beautiful and artistic things into being versus taking things away.

If you're already one of those people, please know that your not alone.  When you're ready to share your unique voice with others, be heartened to know that you already have a built-in audience out there.

EPIC
Open Heart Forgery's official site and on Bookface.

SUPRA-EPIC
For any readers not in the area (or for those who missed the launch event), you can pick up a copy of the anthology in person or request a mail-order from local independent bookstore the Bookmark on Spring Garden Road in Halifax. 

SIMILARLY EPIC
The next Left Bank Poetry Reading will be Thursday April 28 from 6:30 pm to 8:30 pm at Just Us! Cafe on 5896 Spring Garden. 

FAIL
Hey, if Stimson J. Cat can write a poem, what's your excuse?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lRwnD-XyltA

I Hit It With My Axe - Part I - The Axe Is Forged

Greetings, Fellow Dungeon Crawlers!

Dontcha just hate it when you've chosen what class you want to level in, added your new attack modifier, adjusted you base save bonuses, rolled up your new hit points, increased your skills, picked your new feat and just when you're finally ready to gank some undead your Dungeon Master cancels just because he has choir practice on Sunday.  I mean, c'mon?  How many times has this happened to you?  Anyone?  Ladies?  Holla?

Alright, I admit it.  I'm a forty year old man who still occasionally plays Dungeons & Dragons.  I can just visualize my blog's hit count withering and dying like a gelatinous cube hit by a fireball.  Indeed, I fear this confession is tantamount to openly admitting that I have four gigs of transvestite dwarf pron on my hard drive.


For the record, it's only two gigs, BTW.   

At some point in time Dungeons & Dragons was officially declared the crown jewel of geekdom, maybe just a shade below the ability to speak fluent Klingon.  But I'll tell you right now, if D&D had Hugh Grant's PR person and not Mel Gibson's, the Trekkies would be standing alone with their scarlet letters.

Truth being, a slew of people have played this game.  As many as six million at last count in 2007.  As an experiment, just ask the people in your own circle of fiends...er, friends to see if they have any past experiences in trap detection and orc slayage.   And then there are all the celebrities that harbor this dark secret like Troy McClure's fish fetish (and that includes Troy's overseer Matt Groening).

Matt's in some pretty awesome company.  The following people have either confessed to making saving throws, have been inadvertently outed or have made so many references to D&D that you just know they're a closet case:  Stephen Colbert, Vin Diesel, Mike Myers, Dwayne Johnson, Dame Judy Dench (turned onto the game by Vin while filming The Chronicles of Riddick), Jenny McCarthy, Wil Wheaton, Daryl Hannah, Robin Williams, Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, Matthew Lillard, Jon Stewart, Jim Breuer, Marilyn Manson, Kevin Smith, Eddie Izzard, Jon Favreau, Curt Schilling, Todd Pratt, Tim Duncan, Jacques Villeneuve, Rivers Cuomo from Weezer ((but more like all the members of Weezer), Seth Green, Trey Parker, Matt Stone, Patton Oswalt, Stephen King, Joss Whedon (creator of Buffy The Vampire Slayer), Jack Black, Metallica, Conan O'Brian, Andrew W.K., My Chemical Romance, Ed Robertson of The Barenaked Ladies (but more like all the members of The Barenaked Ladies), Kari Byron (of Mythbuster's fame), Brian Posehn, Jason Mewes, Weird Al Yankovic, Billy Crystal, David Duchovny, Insane Clown Posse, Emilio Estévez, and Glenn Danzig. 

Hmmmm, if Marilyn Manson, Metallica, Stephen King, and Glenn Danzig all got together to play, I wonder if they'd ever play any other campaign besides Ravenloft?  Also, I wonder if "Juggalo" is a playable class when ICP start chuckin' their 20-siders around?    

The invention of Dungeons & Dragons pre-dates my involvement by about nine years. It sprang from the war gaming hobby which was all the rage in the Sixties and Seventies.  Presumably bored with the limited variables of chess, developers created complicated rule sets that read like legal documents in order to simulate past battles of history.  Legend has it that even the Kennedy family was obsessed with the entry-level war game Diplomacy.

Many of these early games (one of which was developed by War of the Worlds author H.G. Wells) involved the use of miniature figures to depict units, squads and platoons arrayed on three-dimensional terrain dioramas lovingly constructed from HO scale props.  Avid wargamers E. Gary Gygax and Jeff Perren eventually created a medieval-flavored rule set called Chainmail:

Perhaps due to the era's focus on the individual versus the group, Chainmail's scale was considerably smaller.  Instead of figures representing groups of twenty or so men, each miniature stood for a single person.  Being a devout historian of the Middle Ages, Gygax made sure his game adequately covered things like mounted charges, veteran heroes, melee fatigue, leaders, sword and spear-wielding footmen, crossbows, siege engines, morale breaks, tilts, jousts, duels and other opportunities for daring-do.

But what really set these rules apart was the optional fantasy supplement that followed a few years later.  Inspired by the growing popularity of J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy, Gygax added sorcery, dwarfs, elves, monsters and giants to the hypothetical mix.  As such, Chainmail made quite the splash in the war gaming community.

When a Minnesota die-chucker named Dave Arneson used Chainmail to guide his players into a dungeon underneath the fictional Blackmoor Castle the resulting surge of adventure was seen as revelatory.  Arneson recreated the scenario at a convention in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, and Gygax was there to witness it.  Inspired by the giddy narrative the experience generated, the two collaborated to expand Chainmail's fantasy supplement into a realm which ultimately became D&D's most venerable and hallowed campaign setting: the world of "Greyhawk".

The two added a veritable dragon's horde of fantastic new foes, wildly imaginative spell effects and just enough rules to invoke the imagination while keeping everything contained within the framework of a game.  Despite their excitement (and the enthusiasm of an ever-expanding troupe of willing play-testers), Gygax and Anderson just couldn't get any of the established game companies to give them the time of day.  So, the duo stood true to their convictions and in 1974 founded the company TSR (Tactical Studies Rules) just to bring their radical new design into the world.

But what to call it?  As a veteran designer, Gygax new the importance of a good, catchy name.  He wrote down about thirty keywords (like magic, monsters, treasure, castles, giants, labyrinths, mazes, spells, swords, trolls...etc) divided into two columns and played "mix and match" for awhile.  With the aid of his wife and two kids, Gary eventually settled on the alliter-rific combination of Dungeons & Dragons.  A few days later, the new-christened first iteration of his unique brainchild was sent out into the world.

The game was an instant smash, especially amongst college kids.  Game conventions and societies sprung up seemingly overnight, and despite the game's initially poor presentation and slip-shod amateurish proof-reading, the underground swell of support for this unusual new experience became impossible to ignore.

With every new iteration Dungeons & Dragons began to venture into the realm of cultural phenomenon.  The game was revised by several notable outsiders who brought increasingly slick levels of presentation to the game.  First there was the 1977 version edited by J.Eric Holmes:

And then this 1981 edition which was overseen by Tom Moldvay:

The game became so popular that even Steven Spielberg chose to kick off his seminal 80's flick E.T. with a session of something approximating D&D in progress.   When I first saw the movie in theaters in 1982, my curiosity was understandably piqued.  What was this imaginative, co-operative fantasy storytelling game of complex characters, strange dice and high adventure? 

But it wasn't until November of 1983 did Dungeons & Dragons really demand my attention.  I read Lenny Kaye's illuminating article "Role Playing: The Ultimate Fantasy" in Starlog magazine's "Space Age Games" column.  The concluding paragraph quickly had me saving up the modest shekels that constituted my allowance so I could further pursue Sir Kaye's invitation to venture forth with him:

"It's the Grand Quest of Gaming, and who knows what chills and thrills lurk behind the next door - a planked wooden gate barred ominously on your side.  There is no window or keyhole you might peer through, and you can't go back the way you came because the wererats have summoned their giant brethren to help in the assault on your party.  You are Ragnok the Halfling, traveling with Anika the Magic-User and the Cleric-Adept Gen U. Flect.  A kings ransom - in fact, the king's ransom - awaits you if..."       

I knew nothing about the game or how it worked.  I just knew that this article was like tinder in my imaginative, thirteen year old brain.

There was no way I could buy the game in my small town of Stephenville.  It would be a week or two now before my parents would be going back to Corner Brook where I knew I could pick up the box set I'd seen on display outside the Coles book store in the Valley Mall.

Until then I read and re--read the article over and over again during breakfast every morning and pondered my future life as an adventurer.

I was not to be disappointed.      

Next time: After a tragic miss-step two books in a red box with some funny-shaped dice and a crappy crayon (?) results in a lifetime of imaginative exploits.  Plus, I break it to you gently that you've probably already played Dungeons & Dragons in some shape or form yourself.

NERD! 

EPIC:  Hmmmm, if I've never once talked in another voice or unsheathed a sword during one of these games does that mean I'm actually less geeky than Vin Diesel?

EPIC +1:  It's hard to believe that D&D was once so popular that it was advertised on television.  In retrospect, I'm sure this commercial did little to debunk the myth that all gamers were mutants...

CURSED MYTHIC FAIL OF THE AGES: (Yes, this is real...)

State of the Union

Hello, Curious Onlookers.

It's nearly impossible for me to conceive that it's been a full year since I tendered my resignation at my last place of employ.  Honestly, I know I've kept busy and all but this time has flown by like a three-day weekend in Vegas.

So, with a full twelve months now in my rear-view mirror, I suppose I'm due to compose some thoughts of affirmation if only to convince myself that the time is well-accounted for, the decision was sound and I made the right call.

Too bad that, even after doing so, the jury's still somewhat out.

First off, here's some evidence for the defense; a listing of all the things I certainly wouldn't have done had I stayed the course this time last year:

1. Created the blog that you are now reading, which now warehouses 124 entries and has over eight-thousand visits.  ¡Ay, caramba!  Thanks, peoples...
2. Appeared (at least in theory) in three local film productions.
3. Met some amazing people like the band Weezer, Roy Batty/Shotgun-Armed Hobo Rutger Hauer and legendary Hollywood royalty Mickey Rooney.
4. Read my poetry and stories in front of several graciously charitable audiences.
5. Finally had another answer other then "Um, no" when people ask me "So, can I read this mythical book you supposedly wrote?"  Now I can come back on the wise-asses with the infinitely more positive: "Why yes, yes you can...right here in fact!" 
6. Designed a physical copy of the self-same book.  With any luck I'll get the proof copy in the mail this week (fingers and various other appendages crossed).  
7. Volunteered with the Atlantic Film Festival.
8. Finally managed to get formally published when my poetry appeared in the Year One Anthology for Open Heart Forgery.  
9. Went through an extensive personal inventory that will eventually see me return in school in September. 
10. Completed a six-week voice acting class which I'm hoping to parley into a few auditions (hopefully more on this later). 
11. Shot video for a local commercial (again, details to follow).
12. Sat in on a pre-production meeting for a local short film slated to lens in a few months (also, hopefully, a future ECD entry).     
13. Managed to get through winter without sporting the equivalent of a spare tire around my traditionally very sedentary mid-drift. 

There's more but these things are what I'm particularly proud of.  Thing is, however, with the world in it's current fix, will it be enough to justify leaving a job that paid so well for so little effort?  Who cares if it was slowly causing my brain to atrophy?  Who cares I couldn't come close to reconciling the effort I wanted to do with what was asked of me?  Who cares if the job did me some physical harm?  The more time that goes by, the more I realize that, ultimately, life still comes down to the filthy lucre...

Seriously, folks, it's great and all that I've self-published a book, but c'mon.  If a tree falls in the forest and that tree is debarked, chipped, washed, bleached, beaten, refined, screened, pressed, dried, printed, made into paper then my book is printed on it and no-one reads it does it justify killing that poor tree in the first place?   

Although the E-book is selling better then I expected, I got a loooooong way to go to move the ten-thousand copies that I believe will be needed to grab a traditional publisher by the lapels and yell with some authority: "Hey! Pay attention to me!"  Unless I can do some pretty miraculous single-handed promotion for it over the next few months (or enter into a Faustian arrangement with dark forces for immediate financial stability), I'm afraid that it's gonna be all for naught.

I won't lie to you folks, I miss the endless wellspring of cold-hard cash.  I did save a ton of money before telling my last employer to cram it with walnuts and I've tried to be very frugal over the past year.  I really don't buy a ton of stuff, just the odd book, Blu-Ray, CD, movie/concert ticket, decent meal or board/video game.

Thank the Maker that I don't have expensive tastes.  Mercifully my particular brand of mid-life crisis doesn't seem to involve splashy sports cars, powerboats, motorcycles, phat palatial mansions, hair plugs or bottles of cognac.  Well, at least not yet.

No, honestly, the only real thing that I truly miss is the absence of travel in my life over the past two years.  My last two trips (Scotland and Ireland in 2008 and London in 2009) were life-altering.  I wanted to go AWOL at the time and now I'm desperate to go back.  I want to tour the English countryside and poke around in Wales, one of my two ancestral places of origin.  I want to spend at least half a month in France, Italy, Germany, Spain and Greece respectively.  But given the current state of the union, I have no clue when I'll be able to do this again.

The net result: Happy Dave is starting to run out of happy...

Not to mention having to eschew those things that most people take for granted.  Since I constantly felt like walking off the job for about five years before I finally pulled the trigger, my life in general has been in a holding pattern.  No house, no kids, no major investments.  Hell, I can't even ponder replacing my venerable, ole' 2003 Corolla, who, like it's owner, is gettin' kinda long in the tooth.  I feel like I'm in limbo.

I dunno, maybe that's just the way it's supposed to be.  Maybe that's the lot in life for most jobbers on this wacky planet.  Perhaps all we're really supposed to do is toil away at some thankless, anonymous enterprise, trying to rake in as much coin as possible while occasionally eking out small blips of happiness between stretches of repetitive dreariness.

Some days I feel like I'll never be able to generate the sort of scratch I was making at my last job by doing creative things, things that I'm actually good at and feel happy doing.  Right now I'm trying not to do the employment equivalent of jumping out of the frying pan and into the flash fryer.  The jobs I'm applying for are gigs that I think I'm well-suited for and with companies that seem to enjoy a positive reputation for trusting and nurturing their employees.

If I can help it at all, I don't want to say the following words to a stranger ever again...

"Hi, thanks for calling (insert name of crappy call center employer here), my name is David.  How can I debase myself today for your edification?"

I don't want to do it anymore because I honestly believe in my heart of hearts that I'm better then that.  It's a waste of my unique (if decidedly modest) talents.  It's not what I'm supposed to be doing with my life.     

I know, I know.  Eighty percent of humanity can probably make a similar claim.      

Was this whole thing set off a year ago for the right reasons?  Did I leave work because it was slowly killing me?  Was it just because I was bored?  Was it due to the fact that conditions were getting worse every year and no-one I talked to gave a crap about making it better?  Was it to pursue ventures that I would never have gotten around to had I stayed the course?   

Or did I leave because of some kind of midlife crisis?  I hate to think that anyone would make a decision just because hair stops growing in places where it's supposed to and begins to seek out brave and creative new avenues.

But could it really have been something so shallow?

I'm hoping this debate winds down a bit when the demo copy of my book arrives in the mail sometime over the next week or so.  Or I hope the parley is instantly silenced when someone of power and/or influence reads this blog, sees something with promise and decides to grant me some semblance of a palatable future.

Because just as sure as Dr. Johnny Fever refused to play disco tunes at W.K.R.P, I can't do call centers any more.

I'd rather sell vacuum cleaners door-to-door.

EPIC: One of the best episodes of one of the best sitcoms in T.V. history.  I patterned large tracts of my early life after the teachings of John Caravella.  Which I suppose goes to considerable lengths to explain my current fix...

Mike Fright, Part 1 by giebergoldfarb

Johnny's rant @ the 4:40 mark here is priceless...


Mike Fright, Part 2 by giebergoldfarb

FAIL: I'd say #2 was a tell, but the job really did suck...

http://personaltao.com/taoism-library/midlife-crisis/signs-of-a-midlife-transformation/

T.V. or not T.V.? - Part V - The Floodgates Open

Good Day, Prodigious Pursuers of Plasmatic Pleasures.

Well, with the discovery of The Shield, Dexter and Entourage, I suddenly became convinced that cable T.V. could provide quality entertainment of the same caliber as my beloved movies.  I became obsessed with seeking out new small-screen vistas.  I investigated any recommendation from trusted sources and sought out my own leads.

Here are some of my favorite discoveries:

South Park  (1997 to present)

Like everyone else on the planet, I watched the first two seasons of South Park merely for the giddy thrill of hearing a bunch of potty-mouthed kids swear like sailors.  When the South Park movie (featuring the deathless tune "Blame Canada") was released, I assumed that the concept had hit it's high water mark and it would only be downhill from there.  I stopped watching and I fear a slew of other people made the same horrible error that I did.

But when Mark Rose, my intrepid T.V. guru, insisted that the show "really didn't start to get good" until 'round season five, I actually listened to the dude.  He hadn't steered me wrong so far, so I started to watch every single episode starting with season three onward.

And man, am I ever glad I did.

In addition to the already-spicy stable of characters like Mr. Garrison and Cartman, we also got memorable additions like Tweak, Pip, Starvin' Marvin, Timmy, Jimmy, Towelie and, of course, the eternally hapless Butters.  The show also goes after the most timely and ripe targets for ridicule such as Boy Bands ("Something You Can Do With Your Finger"), World of Warcraft ("Make Love, Not Warcraft"), Lord of the Rings ("The Return of the Fellowship of the Ring to the Two Towers") Tom Cruise and Scientology ("Trapped in the Closet" and "The Return of Chef"), censorship ("It Hits The Fan") and Jersey Shore ("It's A Jersey Thing").
 
Due to the way it's produced (episodes can now be turned around in as little as four days), South Park has it's middle finger on the zeitgeist pulse of the nation like no other show.  When something rife for parody rears it's head in the news, creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone can have their characters taking the piss out of it by the end of the week.  For example, the season seven closer "It's Christmas In Canada" referenced the discovery of Saddam Hussain in his "spider hole" a mere three days after it actually happened.

This makes South Park one of the most timely, relevant and relentlessly satirical shows on the air right now.  It's no surprise to me that season friggin' 15 is imminent what with the previous series being just as controversial and edgy as ever.  All you need to do is check out the  explosive "200" and "201" episodes (which threatened to portray Muhammad just to bait a reaction from extremists) as ample supporting evidence.  After all, what other T.V. programs can you think of that incite death threats to the show runners just for being so daring?

I used to love watching an episode or two of this in the morning (http://www.thecomedynetwork.ca/shows/showdetails.aspx?sid=3284) before risking potential brain-death at work.  Unfortunately, it seems as if the show isn't available there anymore.  Is it truly because of "digital rights restrictions" or did The Comedy Network's collective testicles wither and drop off like so much holly berries in the fall?

As great as the aforementioned episodes are, my personal favorite can be found right here:

http://www.in.com/videos/watchvideo-south-park-good-times-with-weapons-4683381.html


Freaks and Geeks     (1999-2000)

Keeping with the comedy theme, I'd always been curious about this show.  This tragically short-lived program from Paul Feig and executive producer Judd Apatow follows the misadventures of wanna-be rebel Lindsay Weir (ER's Linda Cardellini) and her awkward younger brother Sam (John Francis Daley, all growed up now as psychologist Lance Sweets on Bones).  The cast now reads like a veritable "who's who" of young acting talent.

Linda's burnout ne'er-do-well friends make up the show's titular "freak" factor.  Included in this Rogues Gallery are obtuse Neal Peart obsessed drummer Nick Andopolis (Jason Segel), bad boy Daniel Desario (James Franco), wise-ass Ken Miller (Seth Rogen), and reform school bait Kim Kelly (Busy Philipps).  The "geeks" are well-represented by Sam's circle of socially inept buddies including super-nerd Martin Starr as Bill Haverchuck and Samm Levine as the anal-retentive Neal Schweiber.

In it's criminally short eighteen episode run, the writers manged to give these characters some pretty respectable growth.  As Lindsay learns more about herself she realizes that maybe she isn't a prim and proper "mathlete" after all.  It begins to dawn on her that these days only come once in a lifetime and when she falls in with a group of laconic losers, she starts to loosen up a bit.  This immediately puts her at odds with her cool- but-concerned parents who are expertly embodied by Joe Flaherty and Becky Ann Baker.

All of this is set in the questionably tasteful (but still oddly innocent) climate of the 80's.  Unlike, say, That 70's Show which just seemed to use that decade to trot out comically antiquated fashions or provide lazy story hooks,  Freaks and Geeks really feels like a genuine product of the time.  Having grown up in that decade, I can say with tremendous satisfaction that the show's trappings are never just used to say "Hey!  Look how retro this is!"  Indeed, the background details are barely even referenced, which really adds to the authenticity.

I really identify with this stellar little show.  Although my genuine interest in heavy metal and dedicated slackage had me relating to the show's "freaks" I was much closer to Sam's age at the time and as a result I really felt for the dweeby Star Wars and Dungeons & Dragons-obsessed younger kids.  In fact, to this day, I'm convinced that they modeled the character of Neal after my buddy Stuart.  Indeed, Sam is certainly in a different social strata then his much older sister and subsequently he's struggling with issues far removed from hers.

It's difficult to find a clip of this that hasn't been neutered by music copyright laws.  Mercifully, unlike W.K.R.P.in Cincinnati which was horrendously butchered on DVD, the boxed set for Freaks and Geeks lovingly keeps most of  the evocative music of the show intact.  This includes, but isn't limited to, the inspired use of Joan Jett's "Bad Reputation" for the title theme.

Here's a clip from the first episode of this awesome little show:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ai1FHufz_HY

One word of warning: if you're anything like me, you'll get really attached to these characters and may attempt to strangle more episodes out of your television set when the credits start rolling on episode eighteen.  Although the story came to something resembling a natural stop, the character's ultimate fates are still up in the air, especially in Lindsay's case.  It's so good, I wish the original writers would be kind enough to produce a series of novels just to let us know how it all worked out. 

Firefly (2002-2003)

When Buffy The Vampire Slayer was put out to pasture, series creator Joss Whedon responded with Firefly, one of the most wildly original and witty sci-fi shows of all time.  The premise: a ragtag crew of nine misfits, led by a captain and first officer who were on the losing side of a nasty civil war, travel along the wild frontiers of deep space in a temperamental ship called the Serenity.  All the while they desperately try to avoid arrest by the authorities, extricate themselves from sour deals with intergalactic dirtbags and evade certain death at the hands of the cannibalistic Reavers.

Like Buffy and Angel, Whedon assembled a fantastic cast here.  Nathan Fillion is perfect as Malcolm "Mal" Reynolds, a smuggler and veteran with a checkered past who's quick to shoot first and ask questions later.  He's brings the perfect mix of swagger, braggadocio, wry humor and a healthy sense of self-preservation to the role.  Gina Torres is stalwart as Zoe, Mal's first officer.  Accurately described as a "warrior woman" by her husband Wash, she's certainly someone you want to have on your side of a scrap.

Wash, played by Alan Tudyk, is my favorite character.  He's the Serenity's more-than-able pilot, and can always be relied upon to crack wise even when it looks as if all is lost.  His very first scene from the pilot episode gives you a sample of the inspired humor headed our way:



The superb ensemble is rounded out by Adam Baldwin as the morally ambiguous and slightly dim enforcer Jayne, the ludicrously gorgeous Morena Baccarin as the regal Companion Inara Serra, Ron Glass as Derrial Book a wise and tranquil Shepherd, sexy Summer Glau as the enigmatic and dangerous River Tam, Sean Maher as her physician brother Simon and super-cute Jewel Staite as "Kaylee" Frye, the ship's mechanic.

With Firefly, Whedon continues to deliver crackerjack dialogue, clever self-contained stories, and an intriguing over-reaching story arc.  He also manages to generate more three-dimensional characterization in one abbreviated season than Star Trek: The Next Generation did in it's first four years.

The pinhead executives at Fox must have the attention spans of a friggin' chipmunk.  Not given any time whatsoever to find it's audience, Firefly joined several other creative and daring "time slot shuffle" casualties as Millennium, Greg The Bunny, The Adventures of Brisco County Jr. and the live-action Tick series.  Boooo!!!!  

I do have a bit of a confession, though.  At first the show's western frontier trappings, vaguely corn pone theme song and the predilection of the characters to break into a hybrid Cantonese/English patois kinda put me off.  Also hobbling the initial experience for me (and presumably millions of other potential viewers) was the fact that Fox, in it's infinite wisdom, decided to air the second episode first.  Hmmmm, do you think that maybe, just maybe, it would have been wise to air the friggin' thing in chronological order!?  Like every other successful story ever told?    

I'm tellin' ya, it's not brain surgery but perhaps a few of the suits at Fox could benefit from a bit o' cranial tinkering.

When you watch from the pilot episode the odd stylistic choices make thematic sense (go figure).  For example, the characters occasionally speak with this odd dialect because Whedon wisely predicted China's emerging status as a future global superpower.  And although the franchise lives on in a theatrical feature (2005's Serenity) and a series of comic books, you can't help but wonders what heights this program would have soared to is someone at the network had just a little bit more vision.  Or any at all for that matter.          

Speaking of shows canceled before their time, here's another gem:
       



Veronica Mars   (2004-2007)            

Starring the delightful Kristen Bell as the titular sleuth, Veronica Mars is like a fusion of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, My So-Called Life and a good Raymond Chandler novel.  Veronica has learned quite a bit through osmosis growing up as the daughter of a very adept private investigator.  She uses her prodigious investigative skills to solve mysteries in the town of Neptune, California, all the while trying to navigate the typical pitfalls that only incarceration in High School can provide.

Throughout three seasons, creator Rob Thomas expertly wove together one excellent "case of the week" story after another into consistently twisty season-spanning plot lines.  Each and every script is like an individual gem and will certainly have anyone spazzing out on two or three episodes in a row.  Any concerns you may have about this falling into Nancy Drew territory will be instantly shattered as soon as you get kicked in the teeth by the punchy, laconic dialogue.  The supporting characters (particularly Jason Dohring's Logan and Tina Majorino's Mac) are all incredibly three dimensional and in season one, we're also treated to a superb performance by Amanda Seyfried as Veronica's ill-fated, free spirit best friend Lilly Kane.

But at it's heart is Kristen Bell, who's so good in this role it's scary.  Her scenes with Enrico Colantoni (who plays her dad Keith) are among the most genuine and honest father/daughter moments I've ever witnessed in any medium.  In a world in which teenage girls have such dubious role models as Ke$ha, and Miley Cyrus it's a shame that there couldn't be more examples of smart and independent young women like Veronica in real life.  I still keep hoping that, one day, the rumored Veronica Mars feature film will re-unite this fantastic creative team and give us more mysteries to unravel.  

If the show has any failing at all, it's that the first season is just so fresh and flawless that the next two series seem marginally weaker in comparison.  I'm not saying that they were mediocre, far from it, but when you start with perfection, often there isn't anywhere else to go.  But pound for pound, even the third season of Veronica Mars is stronger than 98% of what passes for prime time network television.

Battlestar Galactica   (2004-2009)



Y'know, I was as much a fan of the original Battlestar Galactica as an eight-year old kid could have been,  so when I first heard about this "re-imagining" the first three things I thought were (in order):

1. 'Um, as much as I liked the original it was cheesier then a mozzarella stick dipped in Gruyere fondue.  Can they actually make this cool for modern, more sophisticated audiences?'
2. 'Are we all so creatively bankrupt that you have to remake a twenty-five year old sci-fi series which you could argue was just a thinly-veiled Star Wars rip-off?'
3. 'Starbuck's a chick?!'

But when I started to hear the impossibly good word I didn't hesitate to take up a co-worker's offer to watch the first season.

Sweet jeezum crow, it was criminally awesome.  In fact, far better then a show called Battlestar Galactica ever had a right to be.  Frankly I dare anyone to watch the miniseries and then the first episode ("33") without becoming a die-hard fan.  This is solidified by a "what the eff?" season one finale, a truly stupendous episode in the middle of season two called "Pegasus" and a gutsy one-year jump in the shows chronology which will have you scrambling to start the third series.   

So what makes the show so great?  First off, the insightful writing is positively rife with subtext.  The show features religious zealotry, suicide bombings, sleeper agents, prisoner torture, and debates about suspending civil liberties in a time of crisis.  If there is any show out there that has half as much to say about our post 9-11 world, I'd challenge you to find it.    

Also, the program's modest budget (especially in the first season) actually adds a tremendous sense of gritty realism to the proceedings.  Although the "hand held" cinematography is a tad overwrought sometimes, it does effectively convey a real cinéma vérité style that's normally anathema in so many cheddery sci-fi shows (including it's late-Seventies parent).  In fact, all of the stereotypical trappings of sci-fi that non-genre fans can point to as a failing (stupid props, lame sets, goofy gold lamé outfits, gratuitous references the "space/time continuum" and/or "dilithium assballs") are completely absent from this show.  In fact, you could even argue in some ways, that it barely qualifies as sci-fi.

The great cast really shines armed with such "A"-list material.  Edward James Olmos makes for a world-weary and charismatic Commander Adama.  He's capable of making the tough decisions and inspiring people to follow him, but it's fascinating to watch the crisis conveyor belt eventually take it's toll on him.  Micheal Hogan is tremendous as Galactica's flinty, alcoholic executive officer Saul Tigh.  Just compare his expanded role to what poor Terry Carter had to work with in the original series.  Mary McDonnell's charm makes Laura Roslin one of my favorite characters.  When the cylons wipe out the governing body of the humans, this unlikely education minister becomes president.  Of everything.  Overnight.  She's understandably shell-shocked at first, but rises to the occasion admirably.  And frankly, I'm glad Starbuck's a chick, especially when that chick is the quirky, unconventional and gleefully self-destructive Katee Sackhoff.

British actor Jamie Bamber boasts a flawless Pan-Galactic American accent as the new Apollo.  His character experiences some of the most ambitious changes amongst the cast and he's more than capable of seeing this through.  James Callis as the twitchy, constantly perspiring traitor Gaius Baltar is perhaps the greatest foil in television history.  Also, although much can be said about super-slinky sexy cylon (try saying that five times really quick) Tricia Helfer as Six, Grace Part as Boomer and cute-as-a-button Nicki Clyne as Cally really stole my heart.

There are also scads of fun guest starring appearances.  "Fans" of mediocre mid-80's Canadian television will instantly recognize former Danger Bay alumni Donnelly Rhodes, who plays Galactica's resident chain-smoking sawbones Major Sherman "Doc" Cottle.  A certain "Warrior Princess" of some regard has a recurring role as a fleet reported with dubious motivations.  Always great Dean Stockwell is also a welcome addition of the cast when he shows up as Brother Cavil, the worlds crankiest and most enigmatic priest.

Sci-fi fan or otherwise, you owe it to yourself to give this show a spin.  I loved it so much I bought the company.  Er, the DVD's I mean.            

Although the mythology of the show does get a bit existential in the end, frankly I think that just adds to the show's repeat viewing appeal.  It's one of the best folks, trust me on this one.

I've got one more part for this series comin' down the pike, so stay tuned and thanks fer readin'! 

EPIC:

 

FAIL:  Wow...just...wow.
http://www.cbsc.ca/english/decisions/2011/110223.php

T.V. or not T.V.? - Part IV - My First Step Into A Larger World

Greetings and Felicitations, T.V. Mavens!

For those of you who've been following along at home, you may have gotten the impression that my last job really sucked.  It did at the end, but it wasn't always that way.  Over the course of four years my assignment as an account manager for a major American office supply retailer took me from individual salesman to a glorified, pre-programmed auto-dialer.

We had ridiculous targets to hit.  We had to call one business after another in the hopes of successfully regurgitating as much of our intrusive, virtually-scripted sales pitch at our customers before they rushed us off the phone.  Since our message was about as welcome as a pair of impeccably dressed kids at your door asking if you've accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior, it was almost impossible to keep them on the phone for longer then three minutes.

Despite how off-putting these transparently mercenary calls were to our trusted contacts, we still had to touch base with 28 people every day and complete this stilted, color-by-numbers dialogue with them.  If we failed in this goal we didn't get a dime of commission and might also begin to see progressive discipline leveled against us, including (but not limited to) verbal warnings, written reprimands for our permanent record, and random beatings presumably instituted to improve morale. 

Naturally, between the stress of this and the fact that we were all crammed into a space that would make lemmings feel claustrophobic, escapist conversations were de rigueur.  In fact, we took every possible opportunity to talk about anything but our lousy, mind-numbing, repetitive jobs, arguably even more then we should have.  I think we did it for the same reason that a person without money wants to buy stuff all the time just to prove that they aren't poor.

One of our more popular topics was television.  Now, by the mid-to-late 2000's (in which this long-winded preamble is set), T.V. had fallen into a real quagmire of demeaning reality shows and toothless sitcoms.  After all, we were now seeing such IQ-plummeting offal as Flavor of Love,  Cavemen, and Fat Dude, Hot Wife...er, I mean According to Jim/King of Queens/Still Standing...etc, etc.

I remember openly declaring to everyone in my aisle (picture a series of adjoined kennel pens in a dog pound)  that "the reality-show-glutted, prime-time network television vista was nothing but a vast wasteland".

And that's when Mark Rose made me eat my words.

A brash, opinionated, entertainment connoisseur, Mark would often engage me in heated debates about the minutia of pop-culture.  The verbal donnybrooks that often resulted were often very cathartic.  Only now do I realize how important these dialogues were to staving off brain death resulting from interchangeable banal conversations with our customers or having to listen to the incessant bleating of soccer moms about the merits of American Idol or The Bachelor.

People sitting within earshot would witness our little U.N. style debates and marvel:

"My God, you guys know way too much about this stuff.  You're always blurting out the most obscure and twisted stuff about music, movies, television..."

"Yeah," I said in reply to Mark.  "It's like we've got 'entertainment tourette's syndrome'..."

Anyway, on that particular day, Mark wasn't about to let me off the hook with my broad proclamation that all television was crap.

"I'm gonna bring in a few episodes of a show that I want you to watch.  I'll bet you any money that you'll like it so much, it'll single-handedly change your perception about what a television show is capable of."

"Sure, whatever, pal," I loudly dismissed with a wave of my hand.  "But get ready to eat your words; I haven't seen a decent show on television since Buffy and Angel went off the air."

Mark practically laughed in my face.

"Yeah, well, what you watch tomorrow night will make those shows look like crap."

For the sake full disclosure, this was the show he was boasting about:



And deservedly so.  I dare you to watch the ending of the first episode of The Shield and then not burn through a slew of episodes every night like it's the entertainment version of a tube of Pringles.

Former Angel producer Shawn Ryan created in The Shield one of the most gritty, multi-faceted, morally complicated television programs I'd ever had the pleasure of watching before or since.

The show is set in the very troubled fictional Farmington district in Los Angeles.  Gang activity is rife, drugs flow like water and nut bars of every single persuasion walk the streets.  Into this is thrust a four-man Strike Team charged with cleaning up the streets.  It's led by Detective Vic Mackey: law enforcement's answer to a charging bull moose.  Although Vic's arrest record is impressive and he really is single-handedly lowering the area's crime rates, no-one really wants to know how much of a train wreck he is just below the surface.

But as an omnipotent audience member, we're privy to all things Vic, including his Lemmy-sized personality warts.  He's a womanizer, his family is falling apart, he's hot-tempered, hard-headed, abusive, violent and prone to routine tortuous brutality.  And, then, of course, there's the most difficult thing to reconcile about Vic: he gets results.  

Anyone who still sees Michael Chiklis as The Commish or The Thing from that excremental Fantastic Four movie needs to watch this show, stat to wash the taste of those bland characterizations out of their mouths.  It's high testimony to the actor's ability that, despite being possessed of some really repugnant qualities, he still manages to engender considerably sympathy amongst viewers.  When I was plowing through the show I'd often times catch myself actually rooting for Vic to extricate himself from the binds he put himself into. 

In addition to Chiklis serving as a solid anchor, the show benefits from a truly charismatic supporting cast.  Catherine Dent as Officer Danielle Sofer doesn't always make the best choices, but that's what makes her realistic and relatable.  Paula Garcés as Officer Tina Hanlon does a masterful job trying to convey the unique challenges of a female cop in a predominantly testosterone-fueled realm.  Speaking of challenges, Officer Julien Lowe, who's portrayed expertly by Michael Jace, is a character with a strong Catholic faith who struggles to excise his latent homosexual desires.

Shawn Ryan's real-life squeeze, Cathy Cahlin Ryan, is completely convincing as Vic's long-suffering ex-wife Corrine.  Slack, lazy and opportunistic Detective Billings as played by David Marciano is such an infuriating bastard that you just count the seconds for his comeuppance.  Benito Martinez brings an alternately aggressive and twitchy approach to the role of ambitious councilman David Aceveda.  Something happens to his character half way through the run of the show that's so joltingly awful that it's difficult to process.

The Strike Team that serves as Vic's most guarded and insular allies (at least in theory) are also a colorful and ethically shaky lot. Walton Goggins is superb as good ole' boy Shane Vendrell.  Shane is occasionally capable of loose-cannon bravery but he's also a sucker for easy women and readily available narcotics.  The more he tries to emulate Vic's ability to extricate himself from tight spots, the more he tends to bury himself.

Kenny Johnson's Curtis Lemansky is Beavis to Vic's Butt-Head.  He a sweet, sensitive character that's swept up in the Strike Team's more unsavory pursuits mainly due to his history with and loyalty to the others.  As per the thematic drive of the show, "Lem's" desire to do the right thing ultimately leads to disastrous results.

Ronnie Gardocki (David Rees Snell) is the most utilitarian member of the Strike Team.  He's an interesting cat, kinda like that quiet person at work that you're around for eight hours every day but you still barely know anything about them.  He's competent, fearless, level-headed and intensely committed to the other members of the team.  His only hubris: believing that Vic will be as stalwart as he would be when his own ass is on the line.


But my favorite characters certainly have to be Claudette Wyms and  Holland "Dutch" Wagenbach, played by CCH Pounder and Jay Karnes respectively.  The two make for an unlikely but highly effective investigative partnership.  Claudette is the conscience and soul of the department.  Although sometimes she's ruled by her passions, she's a brilliant interrogator, a three-dimensional thinker and a highly competent administrator.  Revelations about her health mid-way though the run of the show is appropriately heartbreaking and there are no tidy resolutions.  The Shield, just like real life, certainly doesn't play favorites with the traditionally "good" characters.

Dutch is a learned and tireless investigative savant, but he's often frustrated when his theories don't translate to the unpredictable real world.  He's a bit socially retarded and his recurring soft spot for bad 80's pop music makes for some rare moments of levity in the show.  Towards the end of the program's seven season run, Dutch begins to realize that everything isn't quite as black and white as he first thought it was.  This comes to a head when he matches wits with a teenager whom he believes is a burgeoning serial killer.

Rounded out by a veritable rogues gallery of amazing guest stars (Glenn Close, Forest Whitaker, Anthony Anderson spring to mind for starters), frighteningly authentic production design and excellent hand-held camerawork which effectively conveys a constant sense of unease and documentary-like realism, The Shield still stands as my all-time favorite dramatic television show.

As if to underscore just how right he was, Mark's next revelation came in the form of this HBO gem:



Entourage has a giddy amount of fun breaking through television's "fourth wall".  Allegedly based on "Marky" Mark Walberg's inexplicably meteoric rise to fame, it centers around Vincent Chase (Adrian Grenier), a charismatic pretty-boy from Queens, New York who, through some lucky bounces, becomes an A-list movie star.  He moves out to Hollywood, California and brings along a parcel of childhood hanger-on's with him.  The titular Entourage consists of his terminally frustrated manager Eric Murphy (Kevin Connolly), his gofer/driver of dubious worth Salvatore "Turtle" Assante (Jerry Ferrara) and Vinnie's older brother Johnny (Kevin Dillon).

The chemistry and banter between our four intrepid heroes is completely seamless.  The actors inhabit their roles so expertly that at no time does it ever feel like your watching someone "act".  I think I relate to this show so much because it reminds me of the questionable chicanery and fraternal bonds of brotherhood that living in university residence provides.  I know for a fact that if I suddenly became as rich and influential as Vinnie here, I'd certainly have my own ersatz support system around me.

It's a hilarious show because you can just see how much these guys relish their new lives.  You can only imagine how much insanity can occur when you take a bunch of arrested development a-holes, put them in decadent L.A. and then give them as much money and vice as their constitutions will allow.

The writers also have a blast playing with show business conventions.  Vincent has to contend with flighty indie directors, a slush-pile of crap scripts, a big-budget superhero flick (helmed by James Cameron, natch!), adoring female fans with questionable motivations and the constant debate of art versus commerce.

My favorite character has to be Kevin Dillon's Johnny "Drama".  Johnny actually found fame years before his little brother thanks to a little seen, cheezy sci-fi/fantasy series called Viking Quest.   In addition to kicking off his career, playing Thorvald in Viking Quest also apparently killed it.   When the first season of Entourage begins, Johnny hasn't worked a proper acting gig in years so he's currently riding on his little brother's lengthy coat-tails and acting as his "personal chef and trainer".

It's with a giddy sense of fun that we watch Johnny's career slowly experience something of a resurgence and even threaten to overtake that of his fraternal meal ticket.  Alas, Thorvald's oft-heard battle cry of "VICTORY!" is something Johnny doesn't get to a chance to say very frequently as the seasons ream by.

And, of course, who can talk about Entourage without mentioning Jeremy Piven's brilliant turn as the excitable, avaricious, scheming uber-agent Ari Gold?  Here's just a sample of some of his finer moments:

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

As if the first two recommendations weren't enough to prove Mark's case beyond a shadow of a doubt, he promptly took my tunnel-visioned anti-T.V. stance into a isolated room, tied it to a table with Saranwrap, nicked it on the cheek with a scalpel, eviscerated it, put the bits into garbage bags and then threw it off the side of his boat in the Florida keys.  If case you haven't puzzled out my lame, hyper-extended metaphor by now, please know that I'm referring, of course, to this stellar little program:



The premise for Dexter just makes you wonder why someone didn't come up with it earlier.  Dexter was horribly traumatized as a child when he witnessed his beloved mother's gruesome murder.  Orphaned by the tragedy, he was adopted by Harry Morgan, the cop that found him.  As he begins to grow up, Dexter's odd behavioral tells are noticed by his foster father, who decides to try and channel the boy's dark side towards something constructive.  From there on in, the hallowed "Code of Harry" dictates that Dexter can only ever prey upon the most undesirable elements of society like a serial killer vigilante.

Now, no-one can really claim that there's never been an example of sympathetic serial killers (witness Hannibal Lecter and Johnny The Homicidal Maniac for starters) but the titular focus of this show is constantly struggling to retain a facade of normalcy.  He has an ironic, yet logical, career as a forensic blood-spatter specialist.  He's a reliable and straight-laced foundation for his sister Deb.  He's a dutiful boyfriend to the damaged-goods Rita and her winsome, adoring kids.

But he also murders scores of people in the most horrific manner imaginable.  Which brings us back to The Shield's climate of moral ambiguity.  Do the ends truly justify the means here?  And, if so, how does that reflect on us, the audience?

The cast is phenomenal.  Michael C. Hall strikes a pitch perfect balance between perfidious murderer and charming everyman as the eponymous anti-hero.  Jennifer Carpenter, who's proved her acting chops before in such challenging roles as The Exorcism of Emily Rose, excels as Dexter's potty-mouthed, dogged sister who seems to keep falling for the wrong guy.  Once can't help but wonder if life imitated art somewhat when the two leads defied fictional taboos and married in 2007 and then promptly divorced three years later.

Two more supporting actors deserve special mention.  I make no secret about my love for Julie Benz and no one can slight Dexter for wanting to take care of her.  Also Erik King is fascinating as Sgt. Doakes, who seems to be the only one on the police force who has the ability to see through Dexter's machinations.  His humorously dogged attempts to bully Dexter into betraying his true nature is just one of the many reasons why  the second season of this show might represent the best television I've ever seen.        

These three revelatory shows sent me on a quest to find my own small screen gems.  Up until Mark's intervention, I'd been perfectly content to write off television as a vast wasteland, but after my own cursory investigations, the floodgates opened up and I suddenly found myself inundated with an unexpected wellspring of entertainment value.

Thank you, sir.

EPIC:
    

FAIL:  Roll Call for a Dark Time...

http://www.tvsquad.com/2009/12/11/feature-page-10-1